


Brooklyn, Brooklyn Take Me In

by WednesdaysDaughter



Series: I And Love And You [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Bucky Barnes Feels, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WednesdaysDaughter/pseuds/WednesdaysDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your entire existence is tied up in Steve Rogers, so tangled and knotted you’re not even sure who you are without his name attached to yours.</p><p>If the war doesn’t kill you first, leaving Steve just might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are You Aware of The Shape I'm In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was taking a shower and started thinking about songs that I could put in a fanmix about Bucky and his feelings for Steve. Then I had the idea to make it, but to also write a fic that was basically "If You're Loved By Someone (You're Never Rejected)" but from Bucky's POV. So yeah, here we go again.

You never really gave much thought to your birth.

Of course, you’d been told on many occasions how a mutt bayed outside the window when your poor mother went into labor. You came into the world screaming and flailing around like a fish according to your father. Your lungs were strong and your heart beat a steady rhythm when you were laid, bloody and shivering, on your mother’s chest. She carded her fingers through your thick dark hair and pressed gentle kisses on your forehead all the way home.

Years passed and you could run faster than the kid next door and hit harder than any bully who was dumb enough to mess with you. You never fought for air or struggled to walk upright and you had charm oozing out our ears, so said your ma.

You didn’t start paying attention to birthdays until you met _him_ and suddenly the possibility of not making it another year was so real it put the fear of God in you more than anything your folks read you at night.

\- - - - - - - -

He’s twelve and he’s the smallest kid you’ve ever seen.

All bones and tight skin and scabbed knees with bruised knuckles; this kid is a walking injury waiting to happen. You can’t let the slaughter go on so you’re halfway across the courtyard before your brain’s come up with a plan. The kid braces for a kick and it lights a fire in your blood something brutal.

Standing in front of him, you plant your feet as if they could grow roots into the concrete and snarl at the bully – Mikey or something.

“Hey beat it before I give you a beatin’ so fierce it makes you look like the mincemeat in the butcher's window.”

Now, you’re not near as small as the kid you’re shielding, but Mikey could still pummel you, if his goons get in on the action. Mikey runs away like the punk that he is and you let out a sigh of relief. You didn’t really feel like explaining to your ma any injuries a fight might have left you with.

You turn around and sigh in exasperation as the kid looks up at you, all timid and tense like you’re gonna finish what those jerks started.

“Jesus kid, didn’t your ma ever teach you not to go picking fights with guys twice your size?”

He doesn’t answer you right away, so you help him up and nearly swear at how light he is: Kid can’t be no more than seventy pounds wet.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think breathing was a reason to get beat up.”

His reply sends you into a small fit of laughter, it’s ridiculous but you can’t help it. This kid might just be gutsy enough to hang around, so you say as much.

“I like you – and the people I like don’t get messed with so stick with me and they won’t bother you anymore.”

To your amusement, the kid scows and puffs out his chest like he’s ready for another fight. He looks you straight in the eye and it’s kind of intimidating.

“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to look after me.”

Your head is shaking before you can stop it. There’s something about this kid, burning under his skin like the damn sun and it’s captivating and inspiring in a way no punk brat should be. Seven minutes is all it takes for you to decide that you’re gonna look after this kid.

“Ok tough guy. Maybe you don’t need me to look after you, but maybe I want to.”

You can see the confusion on his face and it’s kinda adorable, like a puppy that was left out all night only to be given a bone the next morning. So you let him lean on your shoulder and he guides you to his place, where his Ma is probably gonna pitch a fit when she sees his bloodied lip – your Ma sure would.

After a block of silence, you introduce yourself the way manners dictate and you flash him a quick grin to assure him that you’re serious about the friends thing.

“The name’s Bucky by the way. Seeing as how we’re friends now it’s only fair that we know what to call each other.”

“My name’s S-steve.” He replies.

Steve’s stammer makes your grin widen and you shake his hand cheerfully as if you’d met due to normal circumstances. You’re feeling pretty damn proud about the whole thing too – Ma’s always telling you to make new friends. You help him up the stairs and raise your hand to knock, but someone beats you to it.

The door swings open and she must be his Ma, because their eyes are the same shade of blue and you clear your throat quickly.

“Hi there ma’am, my name’s Bucky and I just wanted to make sure my friend Steve got here safely: All kinds of ruffians out there during this time of day.”

Your Ma raised you to be polite to your elders and you really wanted to make a good impression and by the way her eyes soften at your words, you’d say you did a pretty great job.

“Thank you Bucky,” she says, “That was very nice of you.”

She opens her arms and you carefully hand Steve over to her. When you’re sure that Steve’s safe and sound and he’s clinging to his mother’s dress, you pull back and say your goodbyes.

“See ya later Steve!” you exclaim and you’re down the stair and around the corner before Steve can reply.

You race home, smile big on your face and you tell your Ma all about your day and she insists on meeting Steve before you’ve even finished your story. You promise to bring him around as soon as you can and you go to bed that night imagining all the things you’re gonna do together.

The next morning you race around the house getting ready for school faster than you ever have before and your Ma can’t stop laughing as you forget your shoes and bag and even your books before finally shooing you outside because she can’t take the ruckus you’re making.

You manage to make it to the foot of Steve’s steps before he comes outside and the smile that graces his face when he sees you sticks in your mind for days.

\- - - - - - - -

You spend the next years of your life by Steve’s side every second you can spare.

You’re there when he catches a nasty flu that leaves him bedridden for three weeks. You get kicked out four times before Mrs. Rogers gives up and she makes up the couch after making sure you tell your Ma where you’ll be. When she’s at the hospital taking care of other kids, you spend your free time nursing Steve back to health. You even skip a couple days of school, which everyone scolds you for – even Steve, but you ignore it. He’s shaky and feverish and you’re not even sixteen but you know you have a gray hair or two.

Steve’s more important than good grades, no matter what your teachers says.

You’re there when he picks a fight with the wrong guy and you have to carry him through the hospital doors with a twisted ankle and broken elbow from a nasty fall you took after jumping the asshole that was dumb enough to try and get Steve from behind. It’s a flutter of activity and you nearly deck the nurse who tries to separate you two. Eventually they give up and you’re both resting in hospital beds by the end of the night because Steve can’t see out his left eye and his asthma is laying into him like it’s got nothing better to do than scare you to death. You tell Steve to pick his fights more carefully and he just chuckles wetly and says there’s no such thing as a careful fight and you want to cry because this kid’s gonna get himself killed.

But, Steve’s a thousand times stronger than the bullies he fights, no matter what the doctor’s say.

You’re there when Steve walks dejectedly home after a dame shoots him down. It makes your chest fill with anger and you wanna forget all your manners and shout at every single gal you’ve ever seen just how amazing Steve Rogers is. You don’t get it: Don’t understand how they can’t see what you see every time you look at him: His passion, his goodness, the way his eyes light up when he’s happy and that stupid little smile that drives you nuts whenever he uses it against you like a weapon. You catch up to him, leaving your own date behind and pull him under your arm like it’ll soothe the sting of rejection. Steve leans into you and you light up like a Christmas tree, talking animatedly about ‘guys night’ and that Steve shouldn’t get so down just because one dame was too blind to see how great he is. Steve starts to argue, but you shush him and take him out for dinner and he spends the entire night smiling softly at you and you’re kind of glad Nancy or Tracy or whatever her name was isn’t here to see his smile.

Steve’s the greatest guy you know and anyone would be lucky to have his love, no matter what those dames say.

You’re there when his mother dies and you refuse to let him live alone. You promise Sarah you’ll take care of him and when he caves and you move in with him, you can smell her perfume and you know she heard you.

\- - - - - - - -

You both settle into a nice routine that feels as easy as breathing.

He takes work where he can get it, when he’s well enough to work that is, and you pour your time and muscle into the docks. You don’t make enough to live well, but you make enough to live and whenever you can get extra work you’re there with shoulders squared in determination.

The soreness is always worth it when you can bring Steve home something that doesn’t come from a can. He shakes his head at the expense, saying the same old same old: “You shouldn’t waste your money,” and “Aw, Buck we don’t need that,” and your personal favorite, “You’re being irresponsible again.”

You live for that furrow in his brow and the way his shoulders sag in exasperation because his body may be mad at you, but Steve’s eyes betray him every time you come home with meat for dinner or fresh fruit and vegetables for breakfast. You try to be subtle in your spoiling and heaven forbid Steve ever spends a cent of his on you, but you love living with him.

You love those lazy Sunday mornings when Steve will stare out the window and sketch as you enjoy a lukewarm cup of coffee. Bird songs will fill the apartment and the sunlight will hit Steve at just the right angle that you swear he’ll sprout wings and leave you for Heaven without a second thought.

Steve would never leave you though.

The war makes you leave him.

\- - - - - - - -

When the notice comes in the mail, you hide it in an old newspaper under your mattress.

If you don’t acknowledge it, maybe it’ll cease to exist. You’re being foolish and even worse, selfish, but you’d rather give up a leg than get shipped off to war and leave Steve behind: Steve, who is smarting from his fourth rejection.

You’re glad.

There’s not a word yet invented for how happy you are that the Army won’t take him. He’d get himself killed the second he set foot on enemy soil and you’d die right along with him. Steve’s everything good in the world, everything good about you. The idea of him not existing makes you want to hurl until there’s nothing left in you.

Yet, here you are clinging to a draft notice and there’s no stopping it. Here you are getting ready to leave Steve when you want nothing more than to hop in a car with him in the passenger seat and drive far away from this damn war. You want to scream and swear and drink until you can’t see straight and the Army realizes you are not the kind of man they want.

You don’t even know how to shoot a gun.

You’re pacing when Steve gets back and he’s instantly by your side asking you what’s wrong and you wanna kiss him. Just, pull him into your arms and never let go because how are you supposed to function without him? You nearly give yourself away so you step back and shake it off and lie until you can’t stand it.

“I’m joining the Army Stevie. Gotta go do my part – teach those bullies who is boss and whatnot.”

The way Steve’s face falls and his eyes darken make you wanna put a bullet in your brain right then and there; fall to your knees and beg forgiveness for something completely out of your hands. You tried lying to the recruitment center, faked all kinds of illnesses but they saw through it. Thought you were a coward at best, unpatriotic at worse and you wanted to grab them all by the shoulders and shake them until they realized it was unthinkable asking him to leave Steve.

“Oh, you can’t separate those two boys! Not even for a war, it’s just criminal.”

Steve’s your guiding light, your north star.

How the hell are you supposed to be good without him? How the hell are you gonna do the right thing without Steve making you want to be better? To be worthy of being in his life because Steve makes you want to be better.

Your entire existence is tied up in Steve Rogers, so tangled and knotted you’re not even sure who you are without his name attached to yours.

Steve congratulates you and normally you’d let him sort through his emotions by himself, but you’re scared and you can’t tell him so you shake your head and pull him into a fierce hug and you ignore his soft whimper and the way his fingers clutch to your shirt like a life vest.

If the war doesn’t kill you first, leaving Steve just might.

\- - - - - - - -

Training is a cakewalk and when they put the sniper rifle in your hands something clicks into place.

Your worth has gone up and for the first time in years it’s not connected to the approval of a punk with soft golden hair and an easy grin. You spend that night throwing up at the thought of killing someone and you miss Steve more than you could put into words. As much as it hurts, missing him, you’re grateful that he’s safe in Brooklyn. Watching the innocence drain from his ocean eyes would kill you faster than any bomb or bullet could.

Time passes differently in the Army and the first time your feet touch foreign soil you wish Steve could see what do it and put it into his sketchbook. It’s beautiful and dangerous and it’s not long before your platoon is under fire and you’re killing kids who are playing at war. Something in you hardens with every body that drops and you doubt Steve would even recognize the man you had become.

You're thrown into fire fight after fire fight and when it goes wrong, it goes so wrong that you find yourself strapped to a table and liquid Hell is being forced through your veins until you’re screaming for death in your skull and your serial number is falling from your lips easily and without conscious thought; like kissing those dames back home when all you wanted to do was kiss Steve.

You keep his face safe behind your eyelids and pray that he’s okay before another wave hits and you’re screaming. You think you’re screaming his name and you hope not, please no. They can’t have him. Get away, he’s mine. Who’s gonna take care of him now?

I’m so sorry Steve.

I’m so sorry.

The pain has left your bones like jelly and your muscles burning like pincushions and it’s so dark you can’t see a thing. In the back of your mind you can hear rustling papers and you’re ready to get down now, but no one comes to untie you. You repeat your number because it’s the only thing you can remember and when you hear your name you’re back in Brooklyn.

It’s another dream and all you want to do is stay, just stay in it until your heart gives out. Dying with Steve being the last thing you see can’t be so bad.

Wait.

“Steve?”

\- - - - - - - -

You nearly tell whoever it waiting in the doorway to piss off.

You’re tired and sore and you want to sleep for a week, but when you see who it is suddenly you’ve never felt more awake. You’re finally alone: No nurses or grunts, or Colonels asking to hear your story one more time. It’s just you and Steve and you thought you’d forgotten to smile when you feel your lips twitch.

You’re in his arms before you can say anything and it’s different.

He’s different, but he’s still the same old punk from home and he’s studier so you’ll take it as a plus and not yell at him for taking a stupid risk. Because you may not know how he got bigger, but you know it had to have been risky and you’re too tired to berate him. As if sensing your internal dilemma, he laughs softly into your hair and you fall in love all over again.

“Getting emotional on me Stevie?” you tease when he pulls back and you can see tears in his eyes. Your eyes sting too, but you ignore it when you see the way Steve glances down at your lips.

Something in you snaps; something that no one could break but Steve and with strength you didn’t know you had, you tighten your grip on his jacket and pull Steve towards you until you can taste smoke on his lips. They’re softer than you had imagined and when his hands cup your face, you’re sure you died on that table because there’s no way you deserve that feeling of security. You push into his touch, wanting to sink into his skin until no one can tell the two of you apart. You have to breathe, but you whimper when Steve pulls away.

You’re on him before he can get more than two breaths in his lungs and then you tell him with every touch and every kiss and every ounce you have in your broken body how much you love him. Steve slowly backs up and you sprawl across his chest as he lies on the cot and you feel like a new man when he moans into your mouth.

You never want it to end; want to keep Steve sweaty and begging underneath you until the sun explodes, but when he decided to take on HYRDA you’re right there beside him. The Howling Commandos fit you better than the Army ever did, even when they tease you and Steve ‘til he flushes and you threaten to shot them all in their kneecaps.

War isn’t supposed to be easy.

You’re not meant to joke and tease and flirt until you nearly forget your mission. War demands sacrifices and makes no allowances for happiness until its run its course. You’d been played, fell into a false sense of security and as you follow Steve down a zip line to a train you wonder when your number will be up.

War makes orphans of everyone, takes what it wants and never apologizes and you realize this as you ready yourself to grab that shield and do what you were put on this Earth to do: Protect Steve Rogers.

You don’t expect to grab onto anything and when he reaches for you, you let yourself hope for one second that war will be kind. The metal gives way and all you see is his stricken face as you fall: Your name ripped from his throat as your stomach threatens to leave yours.

You don’t have time to think about death even though it’s getting ready to greet you. You have just enough time to recall how warm he felt in your arms and when your body slams into the cold ground, bones shattering and your brain colliding with your skull so hard you see darkness, you thank God it was you and not Steve.

When you come to, there is blood and strange men who start to drag you away. Horror fills your lungs and you try to fight them, try to crawl back to where you landed and die properly, like you were promised as the air whipped over your ears. They stick a needle in your arm and you’re struggling because this is not how your story was supposed to end.

It was supposed to end in a ratty apartment in Brooklyn, curled next to Steve after coming home from the war.

Your screams are the last thing you remember for a long time: Brooklyn becomes the faint memory of a past slowly being erased along with soft golden hair and ocean eyes that blur and fade into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like with IYLBS, there is a fanmix but I don't think it's quite finished yet and I kinda want to write more of this before posting it. I have a couple ideas on how I'm going to do the next two chapters and they're gonna hurt like hell, but I started this and now I have to finish it.
> 
> Update 7/25/14 - Finally I've manged to upload a mix so don't hesitate to take a listen for even more feels: http://8tracks.com/orionsdaughter/brooklyn-brooklyn-take-me-in


	2. My Hands They Shake, My Head It Spins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The riffle in your hand feels familiar, even after every stint in the chair so you begin to think that this is your calling – your main purpose in life. You’re a weapon, you’re good at killing people, and there is nothing but the mission. Unbidden, dread fills your body every so often and it makes you pause, but you still take the shot. You ignore the flashes and phantom pains that creep up on you every once in a while. You push away the whispers in your head before the chill fills your veins and on the rare occasions you’re unfrozen long enough to dream, you fight away the conflicting emotions of grief and despair.
> 
> Weapons don’t have feelings – or memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably one the hardest things I've ever written - and that's including the many characters I've killed in my years of writing fic. I need a drink and some tissues.

You are unmade more times than you will ever know.

Zola’s face swims in your eyes, blurry and distorted like the monsters from your nightmares when you were a kid, but you forget to be afraid of the Boogie Man and learn to fear the dark and what their hands feel like on your clammy skin. Blood bubbles in your throat as you scream and the first time they strap a muzzle over your mouth panic overtakes you and you hold your breath until you pass out just to escape the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

When you wake and see the flash of silver in the corner of your eye, you turn and something in you dies quick and painless when you realize they’ve turned you into a monster. You reach out for the nearest person and as his trachea collapses underneath your metal fingers you’re vicious in your pride because you are not their man – you are not their weapon. You’ll kill any man dumb enough to get close and the pinprick of a needle leaves you woozy and you’re forced under once more.

The glass fogs up with your breath and you’re barely able to make out what Zola is saying before you feel it creeping over your skin: The cold.

You want to fight it, but the frost seeps into your bones and you’re so heavy with sleep all you want to do is close your eyes. Your head is pounding and your brain’s trying to fill the empty holes that weren’t there yesterday, but you’re so cold. Your eyes slide shut and the war ends while you sleep.

You snap someone’s neck before you’re fully aware that the ice is gone, but it’s the mad cackle ripped from Zola’s mouth that brings you back like a knife to the gut. He wants you to kill, wants that to become your main reflex and you empty your stomach of all the bile that has accumulated during your extended nap.

Your knees bruise from your fall out of the tube and you break the arms of the two men foolish enough to help you to your feet. You’ll rip them all to pieces for what they’ve done to you; for taking your flesh as if it was theirs to take. You’re dizzy and nothing quite fits together until they’re strapping you into a chair and dread fills every muscle in your body and you fight the bit they force in your mouth.

You know what’s coming and your mind conjures images that once soothed you. A little girl with a sky blue ribbon in her hair – Rebecca, your sister – that’s right. She’s gone, far away from where you are and you’re simultaneously happy and sad about it. There’s a rickety staircase and a heater that you remember kicking when snow was thick on the ground outside. That damn thing always crapped out when you needed it the most.

A boy – no he’s a man now.

Short – no he’s tall, tall and golden like the sun with ocean eyes you wanted to swim in until you couldn’t breathe and he’s important. So damn important, your best guy – Steve.

Relief fills you like oxygen and when your head is encased in metal you forget to panic; you forget to fight it. Steve’s face is what you remember and when the pain starts you scream as his face is ripped from you: Torn from your mind until you’re sobbing and your lungs burn from the lack of air because breathing is too much.

You barely register the hands that grip you too tightly and shove you onto a table.

Needles are shoved into your skin, but you can’t bring yourself to resist – there’s something just at the surface of your violated mind that’s begging to be heard, to be seen. You struggle to pay attention to the demands of a faded memory, but you’re so tired. The last thing you recall before the ice coats your body is a golden haze and it fills you with a sense of peace for a split second before confusion steals it away.

Time slips through your fingers and the next time you’re awake you’re given a gun and your first mission.

You kill three HYDRA agents before they wipe you again and the next time Zola gives you an order, an innocent man dies in front of his wife at the dinner table.

They don’t leave you unfrozen for long: Not after you see a man with blonde hair and you vanish for four days – halfway to London before they catch up with you. It take seven agents to subdue you and you manage to fatally wound two of them before darkness greets you and suddenly it’s five years later.

Your life become mission after mission and the first time you eliminate a target without the death or injury of a HYDRA agent in the process there’s a collective sigh of relief by the men gathered around your table as someone works on your metal arm. The red star on the side bothers you, but for some reason you asked for decoration and that’s what they chose. You have the fleeting vision of a white star, but you’re afraid they’ll take that from you, so you keep quiet.

You’re good at that.

They wipe you after every kill and soon you’re an empty shell waiting to be filled with orders. The riffle in your hand feels familiar, even after every stint in the chair so you begin to think that this is your calling – your main purpose in life. You’re a weapon, you’re good at killing people, and there is nothing but the mission. Unbidden, dread fills your body every so often and it makes you pause, but you still take the shot.

In Paris you kill a woman in her early twenties; In Athens a boy no older than fifteen. You’re shipped from city to city, continent to continent and some places you’re never taken to again because you hesitated or ran off. They fry your brain even longer when you make a mistake, so you learn to not make them.

You ignore the flashes and phantom pains that creep up on you every once in a while. You push away the whispers in your head before the chill fills your veins and on the rare occasions you’re unfrozen long enough to dream, you fight away the conflicting emotions of grief and despair.

Weapons don’t have feelings – or memories.

You hone you skills and add to your resume when a mission pops up in America.

You’re in a tree as the car rounds the curve and you stay long enough to make sure neither of them moves after the crash. The man had been your target; his wife collateral damage that had started to pile up over the years. You didn’t even hesitate and it’s not until they’re getting ready to freeze you when a face flashes behind your eyelids and it makes your stomach churn.

The only silver lining that finds its way into your life isn’t silver at all, but red and her name falls from your numb lips as she carves her way into your chest as if searching for safety. She’s young and beautiful and more deadly than you could ever become, which is why her name makes the top of every list ever made for many years to come – not that you’ll remember this fact later when you’re putting a bullet through her shoulder.

It’s chaotic and steadying at the same time and the warmth of another body close to yours feels familiar, which is why you cling to her even though you know they’ll take her from you. They take everything from you eventually, so you fight until it’s inevitable and when she’s wiped from your mind it resounds in your heart like a bell that’s been struck before.

You forget the feeling when you’re thawed and another mission is shoved into your hands before you can see straight. Once equilibrium is restored, you’re given a name and a place and it’s the first time in decades that you have to try again. The target, a Nicholas Fury, escaped you and while you have no use for emotions, anger flares in your gut and it doesn’t take you long to hunt him down and finish the job.

Fury goes down and you know someone is on your tail because he bursts throw a window behind you, but you catch the shield before it can make contact. Something settles on your chest, but you don’t hesitate anymore – it’s not allowed, and you throw it back at the man and are gone before he can recover.

You push the unease into the back of your mind, with the voice that occasionally demands attention: Demands to be heard and felt until you don’t know which way is up or down. Your body remembers the pain that accompanies failure and hesitation and you set your jaw until your teeth ache and report back to Alexander Pierce – your latest handler.

Two new targets, but that’s nothing new.

You’ve taken out political cabinets before, gangs of ten – fifteen men, and even a family of five in the middle of a small Iraqi village. You’ve been ripped apart and rebuilt to be the deadliest asset known to hide in the shadows – two targets is nothing.

Or so you thought.

The driver is easy, but he’s not on your list so you let the others handle him and the man as you go after the girl. Her red hair shines in the sun; it matches the blood pouring from her shoulder and just as you go to finish her off, he comes out of nowhere.

He’s good.

You’re better.

Blood is pounding in your ears with each strike you make and you haven’t had a challenge like this in years and it’s almost exciting if you were able to feel such trivial things. He’s desperate, which makes it easy for you to get him right where you want him. You’re two moves ahead when he suddenly gets a grip on you and now you’re desperate and then you’re flying over his shoulder and you don’t even realize your face mask is gone until you see his eyes.

Ocean blue and wide with shock: His words wash over you and sink into your skin like a poison that will disable you once you’re far away.

“Bucky?”

Your heart is racing, but you can’t tell if it’s from the battle or his voice and when you reply the man’s eyes dull and it feels criminal.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

It’s hard to put the next few seconds into order as you’re pulled away and shoved into a car. You’re miles away from the man with golden hair when something dormant in you stirs and it hurts worse than anything they ever did to you. You don’t remember being led into the vault or the pressure on your metal arm.

You’re floating in a turbulent sea and there is nothing to hold onto except that name – Bucky. Something in you is clawing its way through black holes and tears in your mind until it’s yelling at you so loud it’s deafening. You’re hit with a memory long lost and it’s him, so blue and so panicked – shouting “Bucky!” and reaching out, reaching out to grab you as you plummet to your death.

You didn’t die.

Zola, your arm, being frozen the first time; it all hits you like an electric shock and your body reacts without your permission and then everything fades. You’re a million miles away – endlessly falling with arms outstretched as if he could somehow catch you and pull you up. You know that face, you know him – but you can’t remember….

_SMACK_

You’re jerked from your memory and the sting on your cheek makes it easier to focus. Your mission report is lacking and Pierce doesn’t look like he’s above smacking you again.

“The man on the bridge, who was he?”

You’ve never asked questions before – or at least you can’t recall asking them. Maybe you did in the beginning or maybe you never had to ask them because you knew deep down what you were doing was wrong. You’re not sure when you stopped being curious, they stole that from you before you knew it was missing.

But that man… he was there in the back of your mind as if he’d been hiding all these years. They couldn’t steal him – not all of him.

“I knew him.”

You know it like you know exactly where to shoot someone so they’ll bleed out quickly. You know it like you know which arteries to slice with your knife in close combat. You know it like you know something terrible happened to you a long time ago and even though you can’t remember who you are beyond an asset – The Winter Soldier – you know that man.

You hear Pierce’s words, but they don’t fit. That space where orders settled in nicely is distorted and in their place is the man on the bridge. You’ve lost everything, but him. The last link to your truth, maybe even to your soul, and they want you to kill him. This man who had stayed hidden away from the currents that obliterated everything else about you and your past – this man was a key to something HYRDA would never give you.

Your freedom.

“But I knew him”

You’re expecting what comes next and for the first time in years you contemplate putting up a fight, but that impulse leaves faster than it surges through your body because it’s no use. They’ve destroyed you before and they’ll continue to do so until you’re incapable of independent thought because you’re no good to them if you can form an opposing opinion.

Your muscles are tense, but you refuse to look away because they don’t get that victory: They can’t break you this time because you know.

The man on the bridge will be your next mission and you’ll kill him and then you will have finally become theirs.

Bracing for the pain, you focus on his face one last time and sorrow fills your veins when the fire does and it’s more destructive than ever before.

\- - - - - - - -

You have you mission.

Failure will not be tolerated.

Captain America must die.

You are quick and calculated and you leave no one who crosses your path alive. You are waiting for him and his shoulders slump a little and you stand firm when he take a deep breath and pleads with you.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

You don’t recall thinking the same thing when sitting in the bank vault, so you ignore his words and brace for impact: You know it’s coming.

When the shield flies from his hand you’re ready and you are ruthless. You land every hit and he bleeds like every other target when you put a bullet in him. You try to get the chip away from him but you both tumble over the edge when it flies through the air, but you grab his weapon and fling it at his back until he crumbles and then you’re on him – chip in hand. He manages to get his arm around your throat and your vision starts to dim around the edges, so you go limp and let him take the chip.

You’re going to kill him either way.

You recover and your first shot hits its mark, but he keeps going. You shoot again, but he pushes forward and you are losing patience. Finally, he’s down – red staining his uniform and his hand going to his abdomen. You know a fatal shot when you see one, but he manages to get up – completes his mission and you realize he’s not going to die easy.

But he will die.

If not easy, then messy and painful.

You’re good at that.

Before you can take aim once more, the carrier shakes and suddenly it’s falling apart around you and then you’re pinned. You’re in agony – pain threatening to overtake you and pull you under, but you can’t.

You have a mission.

Captain America must die.

The beam is too heavy and everything is collapsing around you and you know this mission might cost you your life. You don’t care – you stopped caring a long time ago if you lived or died.

All weapons fail at one point and are disposed of: You are no different.

You’re too busy trying to lift the metal off your legs; you don’t notice he’s right there next to you, trying to do the same thing. He’s a fool if he thinks helping you will make you spare him: A damn fool.

“You know me.”

His voice is raw and it fuels your desire to tear him apart - you don’t know him. You’ve never known him. He is the mission and that is all. You spit at him, you want to break his spirit, his whole body – you want him to stop talking because it’s driving you mad.

"Bucky, you've known me your whole life."

You punch him and you feel a bone snap.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…”

Another hit, another bone breaks.

“I’m not going to fight you.”

And then he lets go of his shield and it stops you short. You can see it in his eyes, his death wish – his desire to be done. For some reason this only adds fire to your rage and you can barely see straight as you attack and keep attacking until there’s another voice among his: A voice screaming in the back of your head for you to stop and the world stops making sense.

“You’re my friend.”

You snap and liquid fire fills your veins as your fits fly until you’re barely in control of your body. He’s making the voices scream in your head, he’s making everything messy and painful and you want it to stop. You want quiet and when he stops breathing, you’ll finally have it.

“You’re my mission,” the venom in your voice poison in both of your souls and when he goes limp underneath you, your heart clenches in your chest and your fist is frozen in the air.

“Then finish it, because I'm with you ‘til the end of the line.”

His eyes slide close and the screaming gets louder and just like that you are undone. The world is upside down and your stomach churns and he falls out from underneath you while you cling to the sinking Hellicarier. The screams have gone silent and you are deaf and the realization smashes into you and you’re not breathing when you hit the water.

How did you not realize that he could not die?

Not him – never him.

A truth locked away for decades had come to the surface of your mind as you swam past debris and grabbed onto his blue suit.

You could never kill this man.

He’d unlocked something in you buried and burned away until only ashes remained, but even ashes meant something had been there once: Something so vitally important that you felt turned inside out and broken in ways that would never heal.

You’re one giant wound – constantly being reopened and picked at and you wonder briefly if he has a needle big enough to stitch you together.

You drag him to the shore and wait until you can see his chest rise and fall before walking away. Your head’s a mess – you had failed a mission and you knew what that means for you. You don’t want to forget though – you might actually kill him if they wipe you again and that is unacceptable for a reason you can’t name yet.

So you make sure someone knows where he is and you hide.

You know he’ll come after you, but not before he’s healed up so you have time: Time to get answers, or at least something that will help you make sense of the frayed mess in your brain. It’s quiet upstairs; the voice stopped screaming when you hit the water and you know what it is now – who it is.

You stare at his face, no your face, in a museum and your ears are ringing and you feel sick, but it’s an answer. Maybe not the one you wanted and you’re not sure how to get back to that person, it’s impossible. He’s been ripped and torn and beaten until he became an echo in the back of your head – there to stop you from committing the ultimate crime.

It says that James Buchanan Barnes died in the war and you don’t think you can say any differently because he did. The man who went to war never came back; fell off a train and is still falling and while you may never recover what was taken from you – at least you got a sliver of your past back and left it breathing by the water.

It’s not much, but it’s more than you've had in seventy years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM TRASH, I AM GARBAGE, I WANT TO DIE!
> 
> Pretty much the mantra that was repeating in my head the entire time I was writing this: Especially when I got to the hellicarier. What has my life become?


	3. I'll See You in the Morning Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a soul could be cut up and still manage to power a corpse, it would be yours and the tiny part that survived is part-Barnes, part-Winter but it is strong enough to get you out of bed and onto a plane back to the states.
> 
> Your time is up and he’s waited long enough.
> 
> You both have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F i n a l y.
> 
> I am so happy to be done with this, mainly due to the emotional hell I had to put myself through - again. I might take a little writing break or at least focus on cute little drabbles.

You spend the next three days at the Smithsonian from the second the doors open until an elderly security guard helps you slip out the back – hours after closing.

You know the words on every display by heart and your mouth forms the words before the steady voice flowing from the speakers can finish its last sentence. Your life is splayed out for all to see and when the flashes start you have to curl up in a corner stall in the bathroom in order to collect your sanity that’s shattered on the tile floor.

You’re conflicted, confused and distressed to see a man with your face standing tall next to Captain America – to Steve Rogers who you know better than your own history these days. Words are just that, words, and you’ve been feed them your whole existence as the Winter Soldier and you want to spit them out until you’re nothing but an empty shell because that would be better than realizing where you’re from and what they turned you into.

You dig deeper; spending nights in libraries and reading by a flickering light far away from any windows or cameras. The history books say he was a hero – James Buchanan Barnes: A man who was forced into the war and then rescued by his childhood friend, ultimately paying the highest price for the highest honor, except the books are wrong.

There was no honor in his death – you’re living proof of that.

You can’t put the two together; who you used to be and who you are now. You can’t wear his memory and feel comfortable – his skin isn’t yours anymore and as your heart beats firmly in your chest you’re sure he’s still at the bottom of that mountain.

You can’t be that man: HYDRA made sure of that.

Something stirs in the back of your mind and it feels a little like déjà vu and you shake it off every time it sneaks up on you as you leave the states behind.

Not before peeking into a dimly lit hospital room and seeing hischest steadily rise and fall. It’s easier for you to breathe as you walk away and for the first time in years a familiar piece slides into place. Steve is safe for now.

You find a safe house near the border where Canada and the US meet.

You kill the three HYDRA agents seeking shelter there and bury them under a pine tree in the backyard. You don’t move from the chair at the kitchen table for ten hours before the pain in your stomach overwhelms you and suddenly acquiring food becomes your next mission.

The next few days are filled with tiny missions like sleeping, eating, and exercising. There’s no one to give you orders so you fall into autopilot where the basic needs are met as your brain tries to piece together the fragments of the man who died seventy years ago. You don’t sleep much, nightmares are always there to greet you when your eyes slide shut and weight begins to fall off your bones.

You wake up knowing you’re surrounded and you escape without counting how many men you killed and you’re halfway to another continent before you realize that you’ve become a rogue: A dangerous thread that needs to be cut and burned. You decide to act first and destroying HYDRA bases feels almost normal, a shadow of a past life you read about in books and news articles. You’re not him, but you feel closer than you did viewing his life behind a glass cage.

You don’t stay in London long. It’s too loud and cluttered and the memories dance just beyond your reach on nights when sleeping feels impossible. They taunt you; offering flashes as warmth settles into your flesh. You’ve been awake too long, but your brain’s too damaged to properly make connections and recall moments that died after the war. You can feel the holes in your mind – constant and terrifying like the ones in space that can’t be seen with the naked eye. You fear they’ll grow and consume what you’ve managed to recover so you fight for every glimpse and swear violently when they slip away.

You clear out a small shack on the coast of Clifden and decide to rest your body for a while.

There’s something about Ireland that feels safe even though that sensation is thrown out the window when you realize after your second night there that you’ve been followed. A knife rests in your hand as you peer around the front door and see her sitting in your favorite chair.

Her hair is shorter than it was the last time you met and it’s wavy like the mounds of sand scattered across the shore outside your window. She’s sipping a cup of tea and flipping through a magazine she must have brought with her. Your first instinct is to attack, but when you notice the gun pointing at you in her lap you realize if she had wanted to kill you, she would have the second your feet hit the porch.

“I gave him your file, so I’d give him a week before he makes it to London – maybe less if Sam’s unable to convince him to take it easy.”

It takes you a minute to realize she’s speaking Russian and while it’s not technically your homeland it’s all you can truly remember and you lower the knife, but don’t sheathe it.

She continues to flip through the magazine and sip her tea and when you see the steaming cup sitting across from where she’s sitting you slowly slide into the chair and cup your hands around it after you lay your weapon on the table. You’re wearing two guns as well, but she probably already knows that along with the fact a vest is protecting your chest.

You sit in silence and eventually – after considering it unlikely that she would poison your tea – you take a sip and it sits pleasantly on your tongue and you’ve finished your cup before she has. You watch her carefully until her cup is empty and she closes the magazine and finally meets your eyes.

It’s not just your past as Bucky Barnes that you’ve been piecing together. You have vivid flashbacks to the Red Room and by the way she looks at you, you know she’s realized what you’ve remembered while free from HYDRA’s reach.

“Natalia.”

“James.”

“Are you here to kill me?”

She looks down at the gun in her lap and smiles and you’re finally able to convince your muscles to relax into the wooden chair.

“I just managed to befriend Captain America recently – I doubt killing you would fare well for our friendship.”

Your face betrays nothing, but she was always good at reading what was going on beneath the surface. Her eyes are clinical and her body primed to fight you off if you attack. It hadn’t always been like this for you two, but a part of you is proud that she’s smart enough to leave the past in the past.

“Then what are you here for?” you eventually ask, arms folding over your chest.

“To get a sense of your mental state and to see if I’m risking Steve’s life by letting you walk out of this cabin instead of chaining you up like I would have been ordered to do once.”

It’s you turn to look down and your eyes trace the grain in the table as you gather your thoughts to form a reply. You know what she wants to hear, what you want to be able to say, but you’re not there yet.

So you settle for the truth.

“I won’t kill him. Captain America is no longer my mission and HYDRA no longer my keeper.”

“It’s not Captain America I’m worried about,” Natalia snaps and it surprises you both.

She takes a breath and leans back in her chair, but you find the words first.

“I’m not him anymore. James Buchanan Barnes is a ghost and eventually he’s going to figure that out and give up.”

Her eyes hold sympathy and it makes you bristle when she shakes her head.

“You and I both know how stubborn Rogers is. He won’t quit trying to find you even if it takes another seventy years.”

She stands and you flinch, but she grabs your cup and takes it to the sink with hers before trashing the magazine that you now realize is in French. She grabs her jacket she left hanging on the couch and holsters her gun before turning to you with hard eyes and soft lips curled upwards in a threat.

“I’d advise not making him wait that long however, or I’ll bring you in myself.”

The urge to roll your eyes strikes you hard and you feel like you’ve heard something similar before.

“I thought you of all people would be sympathetic to my current condition.” You don’t sneer, but it’s a near thing and her threat makes your muscles itch for something to hit: A response that’s probably always been part of your biology.

“Don’t mistake my words for a lack of understanding. You’re right – I am sympathetic and I’m not the only one. But I can feel one way and act in violation of those feelings if I feel the need to protect someone who’d do the same for me. You don’t give Steve enough credit because even if you don’t remember everything, you should know that doesn’t matter. Not to him.”

Her words push themselves into your chest and ring in your ears and the truth they resound with make your grit your teeth.

You don’t tell her what you want to: That you’re not worthy of being found, of trying to rebuild a life with a man whose the very embodiment of everything good in this shitty world. So you settle for something that will satisfy her long enough for you to leave Ireland behind in one piece.

“I need time.”

It’s not a lie – it is more truth that you’ve been able to say in years and Natalia recognizes the branch and takes it with a small smile and a quick nod before disappearing out of your life, but you know you’ll see her again.

With your ears to the ground you set a plan in motion and leave the comfort of the cabin and head to Paris where you’ll let a couple cameras see you in hopes Steve will cave when your trail goes cold and ask for help. You know enough to know it’ll probably be Stark who points him in your direction and you’re not sure why there’s a suffocating tightness in your chest when you think of his name, but you’re familiar with the sensation and decide to do digging on yourself when you come across a couple abandoned bases.

Your fears are confirmed at a warehouse and your burn the files you can find and realize there’s no way to burn the blood off your hands: Especially that of an old friend and his wife who certainly did nothing to warrant an early death. You leave when you calculate Steve’s likely arrival time and you make sure to keep enough distance between the two of you.

Your dreams grow more vivid and linger longer when the sun hits your eyes and forces you out of a tiny apartment in Brooklyn.

One night you’re playing ball in the street as Steve watches from the sidelines and cheers you on when you hit a ball three blocks south and run from trashcan lid to floor bag with a smile threatening to split your face. You’re dancing with a woman you don’t recognize and look over to see Steve leaning against the wall with a beer in hand and the look on his face breaks your heart so you wake up early and shake the pain away.

It comes to you in a clearing that you’re forcing Steve to relive what happened in the war and you empty your stomach behind a tree.

You’re not trying to hurt him.

Walking down streets and through forests you did during the war is meant to help you – not punish Steve. You realize as you stand on the edge of a mountain and look down to train tracks that he might feel like you’re trying to generate pain and guilt and it makes something ugly twist in your gut.

It’s not snowing like it was that day, but you can feel the cold air race across your face and the sound of the train is deafening like Steve’s shout as you fall out of his reach. It’s too much: Emotional overload and you don’t remember making it back to the base before collapsing and three days have passed before you come back to the world and you know Steve’s not following your anymore and agony brings your under again.

Two weeks of nightmares and cold sweats and warm nights curled on a ratty old sofa and you wake up one morning with a silent mind and something clicked into place while the sun set and rose every day. You still don’t feel all there; parts of you scattered across the globe dying with strangers and refusing to go forward with someone they didn’t recognize in the mirror.

If a soul could be cut up and still manage to power a corpse, it would be yours and the tiny part that survived is part-Barnes, part-Winter but it is strong enough to get you out of bed and onto a plane back to the states.

Your time is up and he’s waited long enough.

You both have.

\- - - - - - - -

You watch him for a couple months, just long enough to be sure he has a schedule that will allow you to place yourself accordingly back into his life.

Steve runs every morning and has lunch with two different women every week. You see the driver – the man with metal wings – drop by with pizza and beer most nights and some days you follow Steve to Stark Tower.

You hesitate with every opportunity that presents itself until you can’t stand to watch his life pass by any longer without being a part of it and one morning you drop down and sit on his front steps and resolve to wait for Steve to come back. Deciding is a lot easier than executing you find out and you try not to feel like a failure when you go back into hiding ten minutes before Steve will round the corner and see his home.

You do this seven times before finally staying put and you grind your teeth until your nerves ache, but the look on his face when he sees you makes the ache worth it.

He’s stopped and his eyes roam over you like you’ll vanish if he blinks and once upon a time ago, you would have but you’re tired of running and you’re more than what you were when you pulled him from the Potomac. You open your palms to show him you’re unarmed and have no intention of attacking and lay them on your knees which are bare due to the holes in your jeans.

Steve looks two seconds from laughing and you can’t figure out why or what’s so amusing about leaving yourself exposed and open to attack.

You watch him as he walks towards you and he sits down and suddenly you’re sharing a step and his body brushes against yours and maybe this is what coming home feels like because tension leaks out of your bones until you’re relaxed and you let yourself lean into his warmth like you did a lifetime ago.

“You stopped following me.”

You don’t mean to speak, the words just come out and you’re surprised at the accusing – almost wounded tone that accompanies them.

Steve just nods and knocks his shoulders into yours.

“I had to come back and water the flowers in Sam’s garden. It’s a new hobby of mine.”

It’s a lie – or well, partially a lie – and your lips twitch in the phantom of a smile you used to wear and it feels right. His eyes shine when you chuckle and when you close yours you can see the neighborhood from when you were just kids and unaware of how integral you’d be to each other later in life.

The sun is beautiful sinking behind the buildings and he’s saying yes before you can get the question out of your mouth if you can stay, because wherever Steve is, is home and you’ve been gone for far too long.

\- - - - - - - -

You hiss when something sharp prods one of your nerves.

“Oops, my bad.”

Tony Stark has the decency to look chagrined as you glare and Banner’s sigh from behind you echoes in the pristine laboratory. You’re sitting on a cold table, the chair too much for you to handle the first time you had a flashback to your days as HYDRA’s weapon so Tony shoved all the papers and folders off his work table and told you to hop up.

“Tony, do you actually know what you’re doing?” Bruce asked and Tony looked up, wounded.

“Of course I do! I’m offended you even had to ask, so offended that –JARVIS remind me to erase Bruce’s clearance for this level – that will show you.”

You’re not surprised when Tony punctuates his statement with his tongue and Bruce shakes his head and apologizes.

“You should be sorry – I may not be in the weapons business anymore, but this is Stark Tech. Outdated, Stark Tech mind you so you go worry about what you’ve got cooking over there and let me deal with the Sergeant here.”

Bruce raises his hands in surrender and winks at you before heading over to his side of the lab while Tony finishes upgrading your arm. He’s putting the final touches on when Steve and Pepper walk in, laughing at something on the screen cradled between them.

“What’s so funny?” Bruce asks and slides in behind them.

You throw a shirt on and walk over with Tony who settles in next to Pepper and kisses her cheek softly before cackling.

“You’d think they’d know better by now,” Steve runs a hand over his face and you lean against his back and watch an interview with Agent Hill and Natalia. The reporter looks two seconds from bolting and the women look ready to draw blood.

“You set this up?” you ask Pepper and her grin reminds you of a predator in an unforgivable jungle, wild and vicious.

“That’s my girl,” Tony beams and Pepper inclines her head when you and the others lightly clap your hands.

Everyone files out of the lab and Pepper’s trying to get Tony to agree on an international deal even though she’s the head of the company and can technically do anything she wants with Stark Industries. Bruce follows, physically forcing Tony forward as he whines about the destruction of his livelihood at the hands of a sexy CEO.

Their voices fade as they walk down the hall and you’re left with Steve and the quiet isn’t as suffocating as it once was. Wordlessly, you turn and show him your new arm. The only visible difference is the white star surrounded by thin, black circles. You don’t feel like you can wear all the colors yet - or know if you ever will. They stand for something you’re not sure you believe in anymore. The white however, that innocence and hopeful clarity that breaks through the oppressive darkness like the sun pushing back storm clouds is all Steve.

You’re not America’s golden boy, but you can be his.

You finally feel worthy of wearing his color and you say as much with your hands as they cup his face and you lose time in his lips. Kissing Steve feels like resetting the clock and gaining back moments stolen from you both and when he clings to you, you become an anchor – something sturdy and unyielding that can stand the test of being his cornerstone in a new world that’s forgotten what is means to be a hero and a person at the same time.

Steve pulls back and his ocean eyes envelope you and your lungs ache with the desire to breathe him in until he’s all you know and the moment’s heavy with everything you didn’t get to say, but will voice when you’re wrapped up in his arms in the quiet safety that night offers. Taking your hand, Steve guides you out of the lab after pressing a kiss to the new star on your arm and leads you to the ending you’ve wanted since laying eyes on his golden hair. Long before you knew what love was and how it could undo years of unmaking and bring you home after a war that lasted longer than it had any right to.

James Buchanan Barnes died in 1945 at the bottom of a mountain in Germany; but you survived and crawled your way through blood and snow to get back to him and when you look out the window and see the sun, Steve leans in and kisses your neck softly and it feels a little like freedom and a lot like a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fought tooth and nail with this ending. I really did. I think I rewrote the last two/three paragraphs like six time? Ugh I am not even that satisfied with the last sentence - I hate last sentences with a passion - but if I struggled with it any longer I was gonna have to scrap the whole last section and I just couldn't
> 
> Anyway, I just wanted to thank all of you who read this and commented and went to read the work preceding this and you've all been so wonderful and supportive and I'm blessed to be in this fandom with you all.


End file.
